


Sharing a Mattress

by enchantedsleeper



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Chapman will do anything to get Rudyard's attention, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Piffling FM, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rudyard will do anything for the money (and because Antigone threatens him), Sexy mattress advertisements, Sharing a Bed, but it's actually a mattress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enchantedsleeper/pseuds/enchantedsleeper
Summary: "Chapman cleared his throat. “I say, Rudyard,” he said. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”The worst part, Rudyard thought irritably, was that he didn’t even look down at his script while saying it. He’d already memorised the bloody lines.“Yes, well I haven’t,” Rudyard read slightly woodenly from his script. “I’ve been sleeping on a mattress filled with straw and old bicycles. Hold on-” Rudyard lowered the script and shot Jennifer Delacroix an annoyed look. “Why am I the one sleeping on the junk mattress? Can’t I have the good one?”In an attempt to rescue the state of Funn Funerals' finances, Rudyard agrees to do a mattress advertisement for Piffling FM. He wasn't expecting to be co-starring alongside Eric Chapman - or for there to be a er, practical element to the ad spot. And to make things worse, there's only one mattress...
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Rudyard Funn
Comments: 26
Kudos: 212





	Sharing a Mattress

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm back with more of my super tropey nonsense :D
> 
> As you might have guessed, this fic idea was inspired by the mattress ads that appear at the beginning of the podcast during most of Season 2 xD Believe it or not, for about five episodes I actually believed they were part of the show - as in, that there'd be some in-universe reason why Rudyard was recording mattress adverts with Chapman. Maybe this was how he was keeping Funn Funerals afloat? It eventually dawned on me that Bruno Sleep was a real mattress company and that the promotion was real, but it also led to an idea - about Rudyard agreeing to do an advert with Piffling FM to earn some money, and then discovering that he and Chapman were co-starring - and that they'd have only one mattress :D
> 
> Also, this fic is loosely set mid-season 2, as that's where I was up to when I started writing it. I'm actually now up to Season 3 with my listening, and loving it (of course).
> 
> I attempted to invent a fake mattress company for the purposes of this fic, but to my dismay when I looked it up just now, I found that there _is_ a company called Sleep EZ (not Sleep E-Z) that makes mattresses. Apparently my fake name was just too good. I'm too lazy to change it, but please know that there's no actual link with this company and this is not intended as a promotion xD
> 
> I actually have experience with working in radio, but precisely none of that experience informed this fic, which takes big, tropey artistic liberties with the kinds of things that might go into making a radio advert. Because it's Piffling.
> 
> Enjoy (yourselves)!

“Antigone, that can’t be the real figure for Funn Funerals’ income so far this year.”  
  
“Yes it is.”  
  
“But why is there a minus sign in front of it?”  
  
Antigone gave Rudyard an unimpressed stare over the balance sheets. “Because, brother mine, we’re in the red. Out of the few funerals we’ve conducted, we refunded most of them, which means we actually **lost** money preparing the bloody things. Add to that the money we spent on things like props for Ms. Scruple’s fake séance-”  
  
“Yes, all right, but I still don’t think it’s possible for us to have **negative income**-”  
  
“The point, Rudyard,” Antigone said loudly, over him, “is that we’re broke! And we don’t have any clients booked for the rest of the month. We need to find a way to earn some money, or we’re going to have to start selling off bits of furniture.”  
  
The two of them looked around the room. Aside from the table that they both sat at, which only had the two chairs (they had to take turns when Georgie was present), the only other furnishings or appliances to speak of were the kettle – which they’d only just finished paying off – and the toaster. Even the “fridge” was just a picnic cooler, and the mug tree was a bit of real tree that Georgie had sanded, varnished and set in a base. There was only one mug on it.  
  
“You know, it strikes me that we might not be in this situation if you were a little more commercially-minded,” Rudyard mused.  
  
The look Antigone shot him was full of loathing – in other words, her default look. “Oh, **I’m** to blame?”  
  
“You’re always resisting my ideas to turn the business around. You didn’t want to do the séance for Ms. Scruple-”  
  
“Because it was a terrible idea, Rudyard.”  
  
“-you wouldn’t use your chocolates to promote Funn Funerals-”  
  
“Do you mean the chocolates that almost killed everyone?”  
  
“They didn’t actually kill anyone,” Rudyard reminded her. “Which, now I think about it, would have been great for business. See? No entrepreneurial spirit.”  
  
Antigone was saved from mustering up a cutting response by a knock at the door.  
  
“Georgie! Get the door, will you?” Rudyard called out.  
  
“She’s not in. She’s at the Mayor’s office this afternoon.”  
  
“God, can’t get the staff these days… All right, I’m coming!” Rudyard said irritably as the knock came again. He descended the stairs to the main reception area and yanked the door open. “Yes?”  
  
“Hello! I’m Jennifer Delacroix of Piffling FM,” the woman at the door greeted him. Such was her practiced ‘radio host’ manner that Rudyard looked around to make sure no-one was standing by with a recording mic.  
  
“Yes, I know who you are. You gave us a radio a few weeks ago,” said Rudyard. “If you want it back, it’s going to cost you.”  
  
“Oh, no, that was a gift!” Jennifer Delacroix replied earnestly. “Nice to know you’ve been listening to us on it, though.”  
  
An awkward silence followed.  
  
“Yes, erm, of course. It’s getting lots of use,” said Rudyard, making a mental note to tell Georgie to get the radio working.  
  
“Well! If you’ve been tuning in, you might have heard that we’re looking for members of the public to take part in an advertisement for our new sponsor, Sleep E-Z mattresses,” said Jennifer.  
  
“And what does this have to do with me?” Rudyard, who had not heard about anything of the sort, asked.  
  
“Well, we didn’t get a lot of call-ins volunteering for the ad spot,” Jennifer admitted. “So, we’re going door-to-door!”  
  
“Yes, well, good luck with that, perhaps come back when you’ve got a dead relative,” Rudyard said, beginning to close the door. “Or almost-dead, we’re not that picky.”  
  
“There’s a fee for participating!” Jennifer added.  
  
“A fee? You mean money?” Antigone materialised suddenly out of the shadows behind Rudyard. To Jennifer Delacroix’s credit, she didn’t flinch or scream, only blinked a couple of times.  
  
“That’s right!” she said, smiling beatifically.  
  
“How much is it?” asked Rudyard.  
  
“Fifty pounds. And you get a free Sleep E-Z mattress into the bargain. Plus, radio fame!”  
  
Rudyard snorted. “I rather think radio fame would be a deterrent. You’ll need more than fifty pounds to offset that. I’ll do it for a hundred.”  
  
Jennifer Delacroix pursed her lips regretfully. “That’s a bit steep, I’m afraid, but thanks for your time all the same.”  
  
“Rudyard!” hissed Antigone furiously. “What are you doing?! Fifty pounds is more money than we’ve earned in months!”  
  
“I’m just not a radio person, Antigone-”  
  
“You’ll be a bloody radio person, or you’ll find yourself a new co-director,” Antigone said, low and threatening. “And a new assistant, because Georgie will quit along with me.”  
  
“She wouldn’t!”  
  
“Why not? She’s quit once already.”  
  
Jennifer Delacroix had begun to walk away, but slowly. Reluctantly, Rudyard called out to her. “Miss… Delacroix?”  
  
Jennifer spun back around. “Yes?”  
  
“On second thoughts, er, I’ll take the role. As long as you promise to include a mention of Funn Funerals in the advert.” He nodded at Antigone, who rolled her eyes.  
  
“Splendid!” Beaming, Jennifer presented Rudyard with a contract. “Now, this states that you agree to carry out whatever actions are dictated to you by the producers of Piffling FM radio in the course of making the advertisement, no takebacks. Standard procedure.”  
  
“Er…”  
  
“Just sign here.”  
  
With deep trepidation, Rudyard did so.  
  
“Wonderful!” Jennifer whisked the contract away with a flourish. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the radio station at four o’clock, Mr. Funn. Ta-ta for now.”

* * *

“Now, remember, it’s Rudyard Funn of Funn Funerals.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Funn, I know who you are,” Jennifer Delacroix said patiently.  
  
“No, I mean that’s how you need to introduce me in the radio spot.”  
  
“Right, we’ll see if we can fit that in.” Jennifer finished adjusting the microphone poised over the large mattress on the floor. “I think we’re almost set up here.” She gave a thumbs up to the sound engineer in his booth.  
  
Rudyard looked doubtfully down at the mattress. “Is that the free mattress?”  
  
“It’s a prop for the advert,” said Jennifer. She seemed distracted, looking towards the studio door.  
  
“Ah. I thought it was just going to be sitting in front of a microphone and talking.”  
  
Just then, an assistant poked his head through the door. “He’s here, Jennifer.”  
  
“Wonderful!” Jennifer clapped her hands together. “Then we’re ready to go as soon as he gets up here.”  
  
“Who?” Rudyard asked.  
  
“Your co-star.”  
  
Rudyard frowned. “Oh, I thought I was the only one taking part in this.” A sense of dread began to build in his gut as he ran through the list of possible candidates. Maybe Reverend Wavering had suddenly shown a heretofore undiscovered talent for radio. Maybe the Mayor was co-starring. Just so long as it wasn’t-  
  
“Ah, hello there all! Hello, Rudyard!”  
  
“Chapman,” Rudyard ground out through tightly-gritted teeth.  
  
“Yes, isn’t it great?” Jennifer Delacroix beamed. “Rival funeral directors, co-starring in the advert! Our producer had the idea to play you off against each other. I thought it was a marvellous idea.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure we can do our best to provide a bit of banter, can’t we, Rudyard?” said Chapman, infuriatingly cheerful.  
  
“Sod off, Chapman.”  
  
“Just the ticket!” said Jennifer. “Here are your scripts, both of you.”  
  
Chapman took his and started reading; Rudyard, meanwhile, skimmed through his copy for the mention of Funn Funerals. There wasn’t one.  
  
“What is this? You promised that you’d put in a reference to Funn Funerals,” Rudyard said angrily. “It’s not in here!”  
  
“Well, everyone in Piffling knows about your business, Mr. Funn,” Jennifer Delacroix pointed out. “It’s literally got your name in it. Also, our sponsor wasn’t keen on including a conflicting promotion.”  
  
“Now look here-”  
  
“All right, everybody! Let’s get this show on the road!” Jennifer called to the various station attendants and engineers, turning away from them. Rudyard glowered at her retreating back.  
  
“Cheer up, Rudyard,” said Chapman. “At least you get to be on the radio! And hey, it’ll be a bit of fun.”  
  
Rudyard gave Chapman his most emphatic glare. “Let’s get this over with,” he growled, stomping to where one of the engineers directed him next to the microphone. “And while we’re on the subject? It should be ‘Sleep E Zed’, not ‘Sleep E Zee’. We’re not American.”  
  
The engineer ignored him. Chapman raised his eyebrows and gave him a look that vaguely attempted to be sympathetic. “Maybe the company’s American.”  
  
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Rudyard insisted. He should have brought Madeline along – she would have understood. She was a stickler for proper spelling and pronunciation.  
  
“Everyone in place?” inquired Jennifer Delacroix. “Okay! Action. I mean, record.”  
  
Chapman cleared his throat. “I say, Rudyard,” he said. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”  
  
The worst part, Rudyard thought irritably, was that he didn’t even look down at his script while saying it. He’d already memorised the bloody lines.  
  
“Yes, well I haven’t,” Rudyard read slightly woodenly from his script. “I’ve been sleeping on a mattress filled with straw and old bicycles. Hold on-” Rudyard lowered the script and shot Jennifer Delacroix an annoyed look. “Why am I the one sleeping on the junk mattress? Can’t I have the good one?”  
  
“Could you just deliver the lines, please, Mr. Funn?” Jennifer asked with exaggerated patience.  
  
“That’s terrible,” Chapman replied, continuing on with their dialogue. “What you need is a Sleep E-Z mattress. I’ve got one right here.”  
  
“That’s it, Mr. Chapman, now if you can get down on the mattress,” Jennifer encouraged him.  
  
“Oh, er, right, there’s a practical element to this, is there?” Chapman flashed one of his signature charming grins and lay down gracefully on the mattress. Rudyard rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you come down here and try it out?”  
  
Rudyard stared at him. “What?”  
  
“That’s the script, Rudyard,” Chapman replied with an infuriating smile, like he knew Rudyard hadn’t looked at it. “Check your copy.”  
  
Rudyard looked down at his page, and sure enough, the line was right there. As was his reply: ‘Don’t mind if I do.’  
  
“But I don’t actually need to… get on the mattress,” Rudyard said with a mounting sense of dread.  
  
“Yes, you need to lie down too! It’s all part of the sponsorship requirement,” Jennifer Delacroix said cheerfully. “The listeners need to really **hear** you enjoying the mattress.”  
  
“Can’t I just pretend?”  
  
“Come on, Rudyard, it’s only a mattress,” said Chapman from his reclined position. He looked maddeningly at ease.  
  
“Haven’t you got another one I could lie on? Can’t we make the line, ‘Why don’t you try out that one over there?’?”  
  
“We can’t mic up _two_ mattresses,” Jennifer pointed out, again with the air of exaggerated patience. “And there’d be no room in the studio for them. You need to do it this way.”  
  
“Nope, I’m sorry, I won’t do it.”  
  
Jennifer gave him a regretful look that contained not an ounce of actual sympathy. “That’s too bad, Mr. Funn, because the contract you signed states that you will.”  
  
“What contra… _Aaaaaggghhhh_,” Rudyard exclaimed as he remembered the paperwork that Jennifer had press-ganged him into signing. “You didn’t let me read the fine print!”  
  
“I told you, no takebacks.”  
  
“Rudyard,” said Chapman in a ‘be reasonable’ tone. “This can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever had to do, can it?”  
  
“It’s in the top three,” Rudyard muttered. He seriously contemplated storming out of the recording studio, but then thought about the fee that he would forfeit and Antigone’s threats. “Agh! Fine.”  
  
Very slowly and stiffly, he lay down on the mattress, as close to the edge – and as far away from Chapman – as he physically could. “Don’t mind if I do,” he recited.  
  
“Mr. Funn, you need to make more noises,” said Jennifer.  
  
“What??” Rudyard rocketed up into a sitting position in outrage.  
  
“When you lie down on the mattress,” Jennifer said patiently. “Otherwise the mic can’t pick it up.”  
  
“Oh for goodness- fine, how about this, then?”  
  
Rudyard stood up, then threw himself dramatically down onto the mattress – and froze as he found himself pressed up against another warm body.  
  
Slowly, he rolled to the side to see Eric Chapman’s face very close to his. Their knees were touching. Chapman smiled at him.  
  
Rudyard swallowed hard. Something in his stomach definitely had not gone hot and liquid at being so close to his sworn enemy. And he would deny that he was blushing to the end of his days.  
  
“Mr. Funn?” Jennifer’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Your line?”  
  
“Don’t mind if I do,” Rudyard said, staring into Chapman’s vivid blue eyes. He wanted to scoot backwards, put some space between them, but the dip in the mattress was drawing them down together. It was also a damnably comfortable mattress. Rudyard could feel all of his bones sinking into it, his muscles relaxing. He didn’t want to move.  
  
“See? A Sleep E-Z mattress is like nothing you’ve ever felt before,” said Chapman. Rudyard was convinced that the microphone must be picking up the pounding of his heart. A couple of strands of blond hair had fallen over Chapman’s eyes. “It’s got twelve different zones of comfort, and is engineered to mould itself to your form.” The way his voice dipped down on the word ‘form’ was almost certainly illegal.  
  
“You don’t say,” murmured Rudyard. He had no idea whether that was actually his next line. He wasn’t holding his script any more.  
  
“Yes. And it can be yours right away for just five hundred pounds,” said Chapman. His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Or we could continue to share.”  
  
“What?” Rudyard jerked away and half-sat up, sure he’d misheard. “That… Was that in the script?” He hunted frantically for his copy.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Chapman, we didn’t catch your last line, there,” Jennifer Delacroix said. “Could you repeat it?”  
  
“Oh, I might have said it wrong anyway, let me check my script.” Chapman sat up easily, his arm brushing up against Rudyard’s, as he collected his script from the floor. “Ah yes, here it is-” He turned back to Rudyard to deliver the line. “And it can be yours right away for just five hundred pounds. Try it now for one hundred days – your money back, guaranteed, if you aren’t completely smitten by the end of the trial.” He gave Rudyard a little smile.  
  
Rudyard just stared at him, brain short-circuiting. Had he imagined it? How could Chapman possibly have said what he thought he’d said?  
  
His mind replayed the words, ‘We could continue to share,’ over and over, complete with the dark look in Chapman’s eyes.  
  
“-Funn? Mr. Funn!” Jennifer’s voice finally broke through the haze in Rudyard’s mind and he jerked his head up.  
  
“What? What is it?”  
  
“You completely zoned out there, Mr. Funn,” Jennifer stated. “I do understand – those mattresses are very comfortable. I fell asleep on one by accident yesterday. Why don’t we take a five minute break?”  
  
“That sounds like a great idea,” Chapman enthused, springing to his feet. “I don’t suppose anyone would mind getting me a coffee?”  
  
Rudyard stared after Chapman, his mind foggy and sluggish. Nobody offered him a coffee.

* * *

The recording lasted for another hour after their break. Rudyard and Chapman were made to re-enact the advert three more times before Jennifer pronounced the end result satisfactory. Rudyard managed to keep a more acceptable two-inch distance between them on the mattress as they delivered their lines, but there was still a charged tension in the air. Chapman delivered all his lines perfectly, of course, and there were no more low-voiced asides that Rudyard may or may not have imagined, but every so often Chapman’s gaze would linger on his for too long and- the moment would just stretch out between them, and Rudyard would swallow hard and look away, and deliver his line, and the moment would be broken.  
  
He was going to go mad if this went on for much longer. Maybe that was Chapman’s entire plan – to drive him over the edge once and for all.  
  
Somehow, he couldn’t think that with much conviction any more.  
  
Rudyard barely heard Jennifer as she confirmed the details for his payment for the ad spot, except to dimly note that against all odds, he’d managed to avoid screwing something up and actually earned some money for a change. Amazing. Antigone would be pleased.  
  
“Rudyard?” Chapman’s voice broke into the bewildered fog that pervaded his brain. Rudyard looked up to find the recording studio mostly empty, as the station staff had all apparently left for the day.  
  
“Chapman,” said Rudyard. He evenly returned Chapman’s gaze, sliding his hands in his pockets to better project an air of complete and unbothered casualness.  
  
“I’ll see you later?” Chapman said, a little uncertain raise at the end of his statement. “Er… enjoy yourself.”  
  
He left the recording studio.

  
  
Georgie and Antigone were sitting at the table when Rudyard got back to Funn Funerals, each of them nursing a cup of hot water.  
  
“How’d the recording session go, sir?” Georgie asked.  
  
“Yes, do tell,” Antigone said, eyeing her brother suspiciously. “How much more does everyone hate us now? I can only assume that you managed to completely ruin things like you normally do. Unless Chapman was somehow able to step in and save the day, of course.”  
  
Rudyard slowly turned to look at Antigone. “Chapman?” he asked.  
  
Georgie frowned. “Are you okay, sir? You seem very… lethargic. Are you running another fever?”  
  
Rudyard shook himself slightly. “No. I’m… fine. The ad spot went fine. We got paid; Jennifer’s wiring us the money tonight.”  
  
“And the free mattress?” Antigone asked, still suspicious.  
  
“We can collect it from the station any time tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh.” Antigone blinked, unsure what to do with this unprecedented success. “Good, er… work, Rudyard.”  
  
“Well done, sir. When can we expect to hear your dulcet tones on the radio?”  
  
“Hm?” Rudyard was climbing the stairs towards the bedrooms. “Oh. Should be tomorrow as well.”  
  
As he neared the top of the stairs, he heard Antigone say, “There’s definitely a horrible disaster heading our way in the near future, isn’t there?”  
  
“Yep.”

* * *

Six hours later, Rudyard was still awake, staring at the wall. Madeline had been making concerned squeaking noises for much of the evening, but had finally given up and gone to sleep two hours ago.  
  
_We could continue to share,_ Chapman’s voice kept whispering in his mind. _To share… to share…_  
  
“Right, that does it!” Rudyard shouted angrily to the empty house. Madeline woke with a start and started squeakily berating him. “Sorry, Madeline,” Rudyard added and continued in a low, determined mutter. “It’s time to sort this out once and for all.”  
  
Five minutes later, he was pounding on the door of Chapman’s across the square. “CHAPMAN! CHAPMAN! ERIC RUDDY CHAPMAN! OPEN THE HELL-”  
  
He stopped short as the door swung open. “Rudyard,” said Chapman, looking taken aback. Rudyard just about registered that he was dressed down in a loose T-shirt and jeans instead of his usual immaculate suit. Of course, instead of looking odd and underdressed he looked refined and casual, but the effect was still oddly intimate. Rudyard rocked back slightly on the front step.  
  
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Chapman asked, when Rudyard didn’t say anything.  
  
Rudyard glared at him. “I think you know exactly what, Chapman.”  
  
There was a pause. “Why don’t you come in,” said Chapman eventually.  
  
Rudyard stalked into the sleek foyer of Chapman’s and waited impatiently as its proprietor took an absurdly long time to close the door. Finally, Chapman turned around. “What can I do for-” He broke off as Rudyard jabbed a finger into his chest.  
  
“What was all that about at the recording earlier today?” Rudyard demanded. Chapman’s pleasant expression faltered slightly, but he soon composed himself.  
  
“What do you mean, ‘all that’? You mean the mattress advert?”  
  
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, _Chapman_,” growled Rudyard. “I mean what you said when we were… we were…”  
  
He stumbled to a halt, face heating up. Chapman had the nerve to pretend to look puzzled. “When we were what, Rudyard?”  
  
“When we were lying on the mattress!” Rudyard hissed at him. “And you said… you told me…”  
  
He licked his lips nervously, and he could have sworn that Chapman’s eyes followed the movement. “Yes?” Chapman prompted him, but his voice was low and smooth now. “What was it I said to you, Rudyard?”  
  
Rudyard took in a breath. “Why don’t you tell me, Chapman?”  
  
“I’d rather hear it from you.” Chapman’s eyes were still a vivid blue, but darker than he’d ever seen them.  
  
“You said…” Rudyard dropped his voice down to a murmur. “You said, ‘Or we could continue to share.’“  
  
There was a suspended moment where Chapman hesitated, but then he nodded.  
  
“Why did you say that?” Rudyard asked him. He wanted to shout it angrily, to shake the man in front of him and demand it, but instead the words came out sounding soft and uncertain. At some point the two of them had drawn closer together, and the question hung expectantly in the space between them.  
  
Chapman swallowed, and Rudyard couldn’t help watching the way his throat worked. “Because… I wanted to,” he said.  
  
“Why?” Rudyard asked.  
  
In response, Chapman kissed him.  
  
For a fraction of a second, Rudyard completely froze up, his mind unable to process what was happening. Sure, they might have been flirting a little, but he never expected- never thought that Chapman might want to-  
  
_It’s Eric Chapman,_ his mind shrilled, in a voice that sounded strangely like Antigone. _He’s your mortal enemy. He can’t be trusted!_  
  
Rudyard put his hands against Chapman’s chest, on the verge of pushing him away. Then he seized the front of Chapman’s shirt and pulled the other man closer to him. Chapman grunted as their mouths were jolted out of alignment, and nipped Rudyard’s bottom lip in admonishment. Rudyard groaned, fisting both hands in Chapman’s T-shirt and then yanking at it. “Off, get this- off-” he demanded.  
  
Chapman tipped his head back and laughed breathlessly. “Pushy, aren’t we?”  
  
“I’ll show you pushy,” Rudyard muttered as Chapman reached up to grab the back of his T-shirt and pull it over his head. He emerged with tousled hair and slightly flushed cheeks. Rudyard stared at Chapman’s toned, muscular chest complete with a trail of golden hair leading down to- Rudyard tore his eyes and his brain away from that path. And his abs! Frankly ridiculous.  
  
“What?” Chapman asked him as Rudyard stood still. Rudyard rolled his eyes and reached up to yank Chapman’s mouth back down to his, before moving on to suck and bite at his neck and collarbone.  
  
“You- are insufferable-” he growled.  
  
“I’m- ahh- _I’m_ insufferable?” Chapman repeated with a disbelieving huff. “Oh yes, it’s me, not _you,_ who takes ignoring my every overture to an art form-”  
  
He reached down and grabbed Rudyard’s arse with both hands, hauling him up so that Rudyard was forced to wind his legs around Chapman’s waist, then walking them both over to the wall and pinning Rudyard there. Rudyard leaned his head back against the wall, trying not to look impressed with this effortless display of strength. Chapman started pulling apart the buttons on his shirt.  
  
“-to the point where I’m forced to sweet-talk my way onto a _radio mattress advert-”_  
  
“Wait, what?” Rudyard asked, bringing his head up sharply. Chapman froze with his hands on Rudyard’s shirt.  
  
“Um…”  
  
“You’re telling me that you, Eric Chapman, golden boy of Piffling, used your wiles-”  
  
“It’s called _charm,_ not wiles-”  
  
“Used your wiles,” said Rudyard loudly, over him, “to persuade Piffling FM to put you in the radio advert with me? So that we could do…” He gestured vaguely to their compromising position against the wall. “…this?”  
  
“I mean…” Chapman mumbled, looking down, his face red, “this was definitely a best-case scenario. But I was hoping for… I don’t know. Something.”  
  
Rudyard smirked at him. “This is the greatest news I’ve ever heard,” he said, and Chapman rolled his eyes, finishing with the shirt buttons and pulling Rudyard’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. “Did they offer you a free mattress, too?”  
  
“Wait, you got a free mattress?” Chapman asked, sounding surprised. He smoothed a palm over Rudyard’s chest, making him shiver and arch up.  
  
“Yup. ‘m picking it up tomorrow.” Rudyard grinned up at him. “Maybe if you’re good, we could… share.”  
  
Chapman looked down at him with dark, intent eyes. “I’ll show you _good._”

* * *

“Antigone! _Antigone!”_  
  
“What?”  
  
“Antigone, I need you up ‘ere!”  
  
Irritably, Antigone removed her embalming gloves and goggles and placed them on the table before she stalked upstairs to see what Georgie was shouting about first thing in the morning. “What? What is it?”  
  
Georgie gestured around the empty front room. “Where’s Rudyard?”  
  
“What d’you mean, where’s Rudyard? Isn’t he upstairs?”  
  
“Nope. Can’t find ‘im anywhere.”  
  
“Rudyard?” Antigone called, going to the foot of the stairs and looking up them. “Rudyard?”  
  
“Did you see him after he came home yesterday evening?” asked Georgie.  
  
Antigone shrugged vaguely. “I was in the mortuary until late… When I went up to bed, I assumed he’d be asleep already. He usually is.”  
  
Georgie frowned. “Maybe he went out on an errand - oh, he must’ve gone to get that free mattress!”  
  
“Oh, yes, the mattress.” Antigone looked over at the radio sitting on their table. “Do you think Rudyard’s advert will be airing already?”  
  
“Dunno. There’s one way to find out.”  
  
Georgie effortlessly set up the radio and tuned it in to Piffling FM. They caught the end of a rather dull-sounding news update, before Jennifer Delacroix cheerily said,  
  
“And now, a word from our sponsor!”  
  
“I say, Rudyard,” came Chapman’s voice from the radio. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”  
  
“Yes, well I haven’t,” came Rudyard’s reply.  
  
“Wow, he really did do a mattress advert,” Georgie said, sounding impressed. Antigone motioned at her to be quiet - though really, she’d been thinking the same.  
  
“I’ve been sleeping on a mattress filled with straw and old bicycles,” Rudyard went on, slightly robotically. Georgie sniggered.

“That’s terrible,” Eric Chapman replied. “What you need is a Sleep E-Z mattress. I’ve got one right here. Why don’t you come down here and try it out?”

“Woah!” Georgie exclaimed. “Jesus, I wasn’t expecting that. Is this going to be family-friendly?”

Antigone was lost for words.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Rudyard on the radio, followed by the sound of someone flopping very heavily down onto a mattress.

“Wait, have they got a mattress _in the studio?”_ Georgie asked in disbelief.

“I… suppose so?” Antigone ventured.

“See? A Sleep E-Z mattress is like nothing you’ve ever felt before,” came Chapman’s voice. “It’s got twelve different zones of comfort, and is engineered to mould itself to your form.”

“Christ, this is practically pornographic.”

“Georgie, it’s a mattress advert,” Antigone admonished her.

“Are we listening to the same thing? I can practically feel the sexual tension from here.”

_“Georgie!”_ Antigone covered her ears, not wanting to hear anything about Rudyard and ‘sexual tension’. Good grief.

Unfortunately, her hands couldn’t quite filter out the sound of Chapman saying sensually, “-can be yours right away for just five hundred pounds.” Urgh, normally she was a fan of Chapman and sensual, but not when it was directed at her _brother_.

“This is so despicable,” Antigone grumbled.

“It’s quite good, actually,” Georgie said.

The tone of Chapman’s voice switched abruptly, becoming light and breezy. “Try it now for one hundred days – your money back, guaranteed, if you aren’t completely smitten by the end of the trial.”

“I’ll… do that,” came the slightly strangled reply from Rudyard.

“Sleep E-Z Mattresses,” said the voice of Jennifer Delacroix. “So good, that even sworn rivals will get into bed together. Shop online now!”

Antigone slowly put her hands up to cover her mouth. Georgie snorted so hard that she practically inhaled her tonsils.

“_Ha- _oh my god, I can’t believe they did that! That was _great,” _she enthused. “Wow, it makes me want a mattress.”

“Do you think Rudyard has heard it?” asked Antigone. “Do you think he knows?”

Georgie shrugged – and then she glanced out of the window of Funn Funerals and saw something that made her snort again. “Somehow, I think he might have other stuff on his mind.”

“What?” Antigone turned – in time to see her very obviously dishevelled brother exiting Chapman’s, sporting flagrant bed hair and wearing yesterday’s suit. “Oh good lord.”

“Ha! Get it, Rudyard.”

“Georgie, please never say that again,” Antigone said. “I’m going back downstairs to work. And you can tell Rudyard that literally going to bed with the enemy is no excuse for not bringing in some new clients.”

And with that, she descended into the cool embrace of her mortuary.


End file.
